Dark Debt (Chicagoland Vampires 11)

“I look forward to seeing it.”

Julien belted out his glamour again, its claws snatching like rabid animals. Catcher and Canon were fond of repeating that vampires didn’t really make magic, we only spilled it. It was just a byproduct of who and what we were. Glamour, by that theory, was a fluke.

But this was no fluke. It was powerful and unrelenting, and it demanded an answer.

Julien might have managed to glamour Ethan the first time around, but this time Ethan had known it was coming, and he was prepared. And he wasn’t exactly a psychic slouch. His expression was mild, but he let his own glamour spread, clean and bright and sharp as newly honed steel.

Their magicks mixed, mingled, flowed through each other like two storms meeting, growing as their energies collided, burst, spilled tingling ions into the air. Julien growled in frustration, screamed as his magic erupted forward again. Sweat beaded across Ethan’s face, but he pushed back with his own glamour, a swell that flooded forward over Julien’s and slowed its surge.

They pushed their magicks back and forth until their clothes were damp with effort, until their faces streamed with sweat, until the air vibrated with power, drawing a crowd that gathered on the edges of the carefully sculpted grounds to watch the battle.

No, vampire magic was no fluke, and these men were masters of the craft.

A fountain of sparks followed another volley, and Ethan paused to wipe sweat from his brow.

“I believe we’ve reached a stalemate,” Ethan said. “If you really want to fight me, you’ll have to fight me with muscle, not show.”

“I resent that remark,” Catcher muttered through the earpiece.

“Fine by me,” Julien said, and pulled off his jacket, tossed it aside. “I will destroy you with my own bare hands.”

Ethan’s answering smile was fierce. “You’re certainly welcome to try.”

They faced each other, Julien’s chill against Ethan’s fire.

Julien ran forward like a raging animal, aiming low for Ethan’s waist and torso, clearly intent on throwing him to the ground. But he’d foreshadowed the move, giving Ethan time to prepare. Ethan set his feet, spread his weight, and when Julien hit him, redirected the force upward, throwing Julien’s body over his head.

Julien managed to land on his feet, looked back at Ethan with silvered eyes and gleaming fangs. He used his superspeed and rushed forward, a blur of black silk and wool. And then the sound of flesh and flesh connecting, and Ethan’s answering grunt.

His head snapped back from the force of Julien’s blow, blood spraying through the air.

I jumped to my feet, lurching forward until Jeff’s voice resonated in my ear.

“This is his fight, Merit.”

I looked up, found his face in the crowd, his expression solemn and somehow older than his years. “He fights for his honor,” he said, “and for yours. Let him fight it on his own.”

Ethan spat blood, wiped a smear of it from his face, and stared Julien down with swirling silver eyes.

This, I realized, was the closure he hadn’t gotten. The fight he’d never been able to have with Balthasar, might never get to. At least he’d get closure here.

I nodded to Jeff, took a step backward. Sometimes I had to let Ethan fight his own battles.

Julien had gotten in a shot and didn’t intend to lose the momentum. He spun into a kick that would have connected with Ethan’s kidney. Ethan blocked it with a hand strike, offered his own side kick. It connected, and Julien grunted, stumbled. He righted himself, tried a front strike that Ethan neatly blocked. And then it was one strike after another, both of them moving quickly, the pace quickening with each blow.

Ethan moved forward with an uppercut that connected with Julien’s jaw and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Julien shook his head, slowly climbed to his feet again.

“You should have stayed down,” Ethan said, hands on his hips.

“Because you’re getting tired?” Julien said, spitting blood.

“No.” Ethan smiled, with fangs. “Because Merit gets the final shot. And she’s a better fighter than I am.”

While Julien looked on, Ethan walked toward me, pressing the back of his hand to his bleeding lip.

I still goggled at the compliment. “I’m a better fighter than you?”